A Vulnerable Position
by JaydaMorgana
Summary: One-shot, Johnlock. "Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it." Based on the creepy new deleted scene, rated M for language and sexual harassment.


_**Trigger warning: Magnussen being disgusting and touching Sherlock. Nothing too graphic though.**_

* * *

><p>Sherlock couldn't move, couldn't focus. Couldn't even retreat back into his Mind Palace - not fully, anyway. He caught only snippets of Magnussen's words as he tried and failed to set up a barrier:<p>

"_Oh, I covet your hands, Mr. Holmes. Though, since you survived, I suppose you get to keep them.__ Look__ at them. The musician's hands. An artist's. __A woman's."_

_"Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it."_

Threatening his masculinity - that he could brush aside. But that last comment? _"You'll get used to it"_? If Sherlock had been in a normal state of health he would have shuddered.

"They won't come for you, Mr. Holmes. I've made certain of it." Magnussen drawled. "I can stop by as often as I like. I could do anything - absolutely anything - to you. Weak and alone in your hospital bed. Where's your precious John now, hm?"

Magnussen bent forward, stretching out his long neck, peering at him with reptilian eyes. Licking his lips suggestively. And then, to Sherlock's utter horror, he kissed him, full on the mouth.

It wasn't a short kiss by any means. It was prolonged, wet and sloppy. Sherlock mustered up all the energy he had and twisted away - only an inch, but it was enough.

"Oh, you don't like that, do you?" Magnussen purred. "Don't like it when John isn't here to save you? I was wrong, Mr. Holmes. I'd always thought him to be the damsel in distress. But no - _you_ are."

He took Sherlock's hand in his own again, the touch just as wet and sloppy as his mouth had been … and that was saying something. Magnussen, believing that he hadn't unnerved Sherlock enough, peeled back Sherlock's covers to reveal bare legs and a small pair of white pants. He rested what he believed to be a gentle hand on Sherlock's upper thigh.

Now Sherlock really began to panic. He couldn't retreat into his Mind Palace, not a bit. Not in his confused, drug-induced state. He felt numb, and yet he felt aware of absolutely everything. An electric current jolted throughout his every limb - and yet, he didn't move. Couldn't move. He felt surprised, terrified tears spring to his eyes.

"Oh, poor thing," Magnussen said with a giggle. "Poor, delicate Mr. Holmes. Just a boy, really. Just a scared little boy."

Sherlock, regaining a small amount of energy, clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut. He had to remain in control. And yet, he didn't want Magnussen to know this was disturbing him. How could he do both, in such a state?

"John …" he said feebly, disregarding his previous inner monologue.

"Ah. I see how it is." Magnussen murmured. "Not only your pressure point, now is he? More than that." He added this information to his files gleefully. "I'll have a good bit of fun with this knowledge." He ran a hand up Sherlock's side and over his chest, then swept his hand away in an oddly graceful manner.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. I've had fun with you."

Magnussen re-applied the pulse-oximeter, brushed a hand through Sherlock's damp curls, and left the room.

In a perfect world, John would have come, would have saved him - because he really was the damsel in distress, in the end. Magnussen had been right about that one thing … and one thing only. John would have burst into the room and blown a hole through Magnussen's skull. Or something like that.

But no one had come. No one had even known. And no one would ever know.

Sherlock worked to control his heart rate, his breathing. He felt the cold tears course down his pale cheeks. The crying did not last long, however. He refused to be weak. He would not let Magnussen have the advantage over him - not this time, and not ever.

Not unless …

* * *

><p>Magnussen was flicking John's face. Threatening him. Threatening Mary. Not that that last part mattered; Sherlock hated Mary. But what about John? Sherlock couldn't stand this. It had been terrifying enough - that's right, terrifying! - to be sexually molested in his hospital bed, but <em>this? <em>Holding this kind of leverage over John Watson, his best friend? He couldn't allow it.

Sherlock lost it. Despite the descending helicopters, the command from his brother not to shoot … he did it anyway. Shot Charles Augustus Magnussen's brains right out of his head.

"JESUS, SHERLOCK!" John yelled, staring in horror at the corpse. He couldn't believe it; his friend had truly lost it. Wasn't the great Sherlock Holmes supposed to have some sort of clever solution? Why had he done _this!?_

Sherlock tossed the gun aside, throwing his hands in the air. Rambled off something about John being safe now. And Mary, too, as little as he wanted to admit it.

He didn't care if he died, now. If they shot him, or something much worse. At least now Magnussen wouldn't do to John what he'd done to him. Wouldn't humiliate him. Wouldn't destroy him, physically or emotionally. Or both.

* * *

><p>"Why, Sherlock? <em>Why?<em>"

Needless to say, all hell had broken loose since Magnussen's death. Moriarty had returned. John and Mary were 'taking a break' after a series of arguments. John was a mess. Sherlock was even more so.

Sherlock and John sat across from each other in their Baker Street dwellings, across from an empty grate. Sherlock wasn't speaking, despite John's queries.

"Sherlock, please answer me."

"Because I wasn't clever, John! There, are you happy? I wasn't bloody clever, for once," Sherlock snapped. He clenched the arms of his chair, refusing to meet John's eyes.

"Sherlock, I know you've had your moments where you've been as daft as can be, but no one just decides to _shoot_ someone! Well, okay, that's not true, but _you_ don't just shoot someone." John watched Sherlock closely, watched the way Sherlock refused to look at him. "There's something you're not telling me."

Sherlock groaned. "I shouldn't have taught you my methods. You're getting too sharp."

"I'm not joking right now, Sherlock. Tell me: _why did you shoot Magnussen?_"

Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't tell John his feelings. That would never happen. John wasn't about to give him an easy way out, so what could he say?

"Magnussen. In the hospital. He touched me."

"_What!?_" John couldn't believe what he was hearing. This. Wasn't Real. This was _not_ happening.

"Erm … I'll spare you the details …"

"No. Fuck no. Tell me _exactly_ what happened."

"John, there's nothing we can do about it now! He's already dead."

Sherlock squirmed. Took a deep breath. "Erm. Okay. He stopped by the hospital. Said some very Magnussen-y things. Disturbing things. Then he …" Sherlock squirmed even more. John had never seen his friend so unsure of himself.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's between you and me."

"He … kissed me. And ran his hands over me a bit. Okay, a lot. Said he could do anything to me, because I couldn't move, and no one was coming to help …"

"Oh my God." John felt tears sting his eyes. "I can't - I can't believe. Oh-oh my God. This is … Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't important."

"Of course it was bloody important! That disgusting leech stopped by the hospital and bloody molested my best friend! I would have fucking _killed_ him had I known."

"And what, you'd be carted off for six months?" Sherlock demanded. "We'd never see each other again, John."

"That didn't stop _you_ from shooting him! And don't tell me you knew Moriarty was returning, because that's obviously not the case-" John paused. "Okay. Sherlock. I understand that what you've been telling me has been painful for you, and I'm sorry for getting like this, I really am. But … what I don't understand is, why did you wait until Magnussen was-was flicking my face? To shoot him, I mean. There were loads of other opportunities. I mean, it could have been done when-"

"John. No. That part's not important."

"Of course it bloody is."

"I would have shot him eventually, so what does it matter-"

"You waited until that precise moment, when he had all that leverage - I just don't see why you'd-"

"It doesn't have to make any sense, John. Is the fact that he touched me in hospital not enough for you?"

John paused, took a step back. "Okay, you're right, Sherlock. I'm sorry." He cleared his throat. Without further ado, he leaned in and gave Sherlock an awkward hug. "I'm so sorry, mate. I really am."

Sherlock leaned into the touch, blinking away the tears that seemed all too willing to appear as of late. The hug seemed to last forever, but that was a good thing. He felt comforted for the first time since Magnussen had made an appearance in their lives.

"John," he said softly. "I would tell you the reason, but it would ruin everything. Destroy our friendship. You'd never speak to me again. So please, don't ever ask me again why I did what I did … at that time."

John pulled back. "You can't just dangle the fucking carrot in front of me like that, Sherlock, and not expect me to ask! Jesus. Now you've got to tell me."

"You're eager to risk our friendship, are you?"

"I'm sure our friendship has been through a lot worse."

"No. It hasn't."

Sherlock couldn't believe what was coming over him. He wasn't used to such outward displays of emotion. He clenched his fists, willing to do anything - _anything_ - for control. He could not lose control, not ever. And especially not now.

A sob wracked his chest. Just once, and then it was over.

"Sherlock-"

"I love you, John." Sherlock let that hang in the air for a moment, hardly gauging John's reaction. "I have loved you, ever since that day at Bart's, when we first met. Somehow I knew, right then and there. And I knew you'd never feel the same.

"I pined for you. Oh, God, I pined! It's embarrassing, really, how many of my thoughts were about you. I wasn't used to having friends; it must have been how all friends felt for one another, right? I was convinced of that for a long while. But no. I was completely, utterly wrong on that point. I loved you, John Watson. I love you still, after all these years. And I will continue to love you. I know it will ruin our friendship, this knowledge, but, well … that's why I did what I did that night. The hospital scenario was certainly part of it, but …" Sherlock paused to take a breath. He knew he was babbling, and he no longer cared. "I love you." He could hear the desperation, the heartache, in his voice, and hated himself for it.

Finally, he looked up.

John was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth literally agape. Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest.

"He was going to do even worse to you and Mary than what he did to me," Sherlock continued, desperate to fill the silence. "I couldn't allow that. As selfish a being as I am, John, I couldn't allow you and Mary to be unhappy together. And Magnussen would have made sure of that. I detested the way he flicked your face, and all it represented. I couldn't-"

"Sherlock," John breathed, holding up a hand. "It's okay. I get it."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut.

"Sherlock. God. Do you know why I married Mary?"

"Because you love her, obviously," Sherlock said.

"No, you loon! Because I thought you didn't love _me!_"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to stare.

"I loved you - still do, you know - and I got no hint - no bloody hint - that you felt the same. I've been completely blindsided, with you and your 'concealing your emotions' bullshit. So I thought, 'the closest I'll ever get to a real relationship after Sherlock is Mary', so I fucking married her. And then she went and shot you. Of all things." John ran an agitated hand through his hair. "So nice going, Sherlock. I'm married to a woman who shot my best friend, and I'm just finding out about all this other shit now." John was crying openly.

"There are such things as divorces, John."

"Wanker," John grumbled, glaring at Sherlock … but not in an entirely menacing manner. "I'd been dropping hints the past four years! Jesus. You should have said something."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "For everything. And for my last comment."

"Oh, c'mere, you git," John said, wrapping his love in a hug, burrowing his face in Sherlock's chest. "I can't believe this."

"Me neither," Sherlock said, his voice filled with wonder.

And then John was kissing him. It was a warm, soft kiss - exactly the opposite of, well, _others_ Sherlock had experienced - but there was no time to think of that now. There was only this - John's kisses, John's warmth, John's touches - all gentle and sweet and comforting. Sherlock knew it was cliched to want the kiss to last forever, but he didn't care. He really didn't care.

John worked his jumper over his head, proceeding to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, his trousers. He pressed Sherlock into his leather chair and straddled him, running hands over Sherlock's body lovingly.

"John-" Sherlock began. "What about Mary-"

"Don't talk to me about Mary," John said. "I'm calling it quits with her. It's just me and you, Sherlock, got it?"

"Ye-es," Sherlock let out a surprised purr, arching his back with pleasure.

It wasn't just Mary that didn't matter anymore. Magnussen didn't matter, Moriarty didn't matter … nothing mattered but the two of them. Once they'd roughhoused a bit, Sherlock lit a fire, curling into John's lap to watch the flames.

He didn't care anymore about what had happened, if it meant that he could now and forever be John's.


End file.
